My Only Regret
by EternalOphelia
Summary: [one shot]DrHr. During the war. First person POV told by Hermione. RR!


My Only Regret

His name isn't important, not to this story. What matters, what has always mattered, is who he was to me and how that person metamorphosed before my eyes into the man I came to love.

He wasn't a particularly smart or funny or even that handsome of a boy when I met him. Yes he was bestowed with the soft cheeks of a baby even at his age, and yes his eyes were brilliant when he laughed (which was not often), and sure the muscles of his arms and legs and chest had become tight and well defined as he grew into himself—but none of that mattered to me. Whenever I looked at him the only thing I could see was the coal-blackened heart that beat within him. He was a nasty, cruel boy and I loathed the very mention of his name.

I think the first time I noticed a significant change in him was well after Harry had begun his tirade on Draco Malfoy and was obsessing over him. The change wasn't big or life altering, but it was there and for him that was as good as being a saint.

He surprised me one March afternoon as we passed each other in the corridors. His skin was paler than normal, his eyes sunken and ugly in their sockets from what I supposed was lack of sleep. A student, a small first year girl in Ravenclaw, dropped her things in the middle of the lunch crowd. She tried in vain to pick up her books and quills and rolls of parchment, but the rush was simply too much and she was forced to stand there, her jaw tight with anger and sadness, and watch as dozens upon dozens of students carelessly trampled her things.

"Immobila," came a voice from within the crowd. Instantly the students ceased to move and the girl rushed forward, scrambling to collect her things before the spell was lifted. Flushed and still struggling to keep her books from falling to the floor again, she approached her savior, giving him a deserved smile for his kindness.

"Thank you," she murmured, lowering her eyes. Not only was he an upperclassman, but he was a legend.

"Don't be so clumsy next time, firsty," he snorted at her. She smiled again, a bit apprehensively this time, then whispered her thanks once more and sped away towards the Great Hall for lunch. When she was gone, he lifted the spell and allowed the just-frozen students to pass. He was nearly around the bend, when something caught me and I called out his name. "What do you want?" he sneered, not lowering himself enough to look me in the eye.

"That was really sweet of you," I said. "That girl needed someone and you selflessly helped her."

"And why would you care about that?" He was intrigued now and folding his arms across his broad chest.

"Because I'm humble enough to acknowledge a good deed even in the least deserving of people."

"No one questioned your humility."

I rolled my eyes at him. Of course he would turn my observation into something perverse and insulting. I held my ground, however, and simply smiled then walked into the Great Hall without another word. Our interlude needed no more.

It would be another month before I saw him act kindly again. And, this time, it was to me.

I was running down the stairs, my frizzy hair blocking my sight. I was nearly going to be late for class and the last thing I needed that day was to have Snape reprimand me in front of my peers. I'd already woken up late, missed breakfast, and confused my acne cream for my toothpaste.

I forgot about the trick step in the staircase leading to the hall I sought. My ankle twisted horridly in the wrong direction and I tumbled forward, spilling my books and fresh essay on the floor. A sharp pain tore through my entire body; I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The pain was bordering on being too much to breathe, when I heard footfalls.

"Hello!" I called, hoping I was loud enough to be heard. "Can you please help me? I twisted my ankle. I can't move."

Someone rounded the corner and halted immediately when they laid eyes on me. It was him, of course, and he was chewing almost elegantly on a ripe green apple.

"Shit," I swore to myself.

"I didn't know you cursed," he laughed, taking another small bite of the plump fruit. "Interesting. And you're not crying or anything. I give you props. Most people would have been sobbing by now."

"Like you?" I lashed out, barring my teeth at him. I regretted it a moment later when I allowed myself to realize that I needed his help, regardless of if I wanted it or not.

He took his apple and, with good aim, tossed it into a trash bin some yards away. Then he surprised me to the point that I actually made a noise of shock when he bent down and helped me to my feet, making sure I was careful not to step on my offended foot. He balanced me there, against him, his arm around my waist, for a good few heartbeats before he realized what he was doing and promptly stepped away. I stumbled a bit, then found my footing and was able to hover there, unstable and confused.

"I don't think I can walk to the infirmary," I informed him sheepishly, my eyes down. I felt like that little Ravenclaw girl, only I was far more ashamed. I hated having to rely on him for aid.

"What do you want me to do about it?" he asked in all seriousness. "Apparate or something. It's not my problem." Of course he knew Apparition was impossible, but the point got across.

He went to leave, to ditch me there, hurting and angry, when something brought him back. Perhaps it was the soft whimpering sound I made, or the fact that I was failing miserably at trying to walk. Whatever it was, he stopped, turned, and came back to me.

"Ok," he sighed, then turned around and crouched down so that I could climb up on his back and he could carry me to Madame Pomfrey. "You're lighter than you look."

I wrinkled my nose at his insult, then realized it wasn't an insult and relaxed.

"Thanks," I said, giving his hair a good tousle. "You're too kind."

"Don't test me," he warned. "I could still drop you at any second. Don't give me a reason."

He left me outside the doors, saying nothing before he went, his hands shoved rigidly into his cloak pockets as he walked away.

When I told Harry and Ron about our strange encounter later that evening, they instantly jumped to their feet, wanting nothing more than to break into his room and beat the life out of him.

"He _helped_ me," I told them the eight-hundredth time, my hand on Ron's chest, who seemed far more eager to leave than Harry. I thought it was cute and I smiled. "Don't worry about it, alright? It's done and over. No harm done." I embraced them both tightly. "Relax," I said to Ron, then bid them good night and went to bed, a faint, knowing smile on my lips.

* * *

His heroism was not enough—could never have been enough—to make me see him as anything but my sworn enemy. Still we passed each other in the halls, grimacing and avoiding the other as if we each carried a unique pathogen that was deadly only to the other.

One night he arrived late to a prefect meeting, rushing in as if he were being chased. There was color in his cheeks for the first time in months, a soft pink tinge from running. He took his seat and hastily conjured up his notes. The Head Boy and Girl told him not to be late again, then continued on with the meeting as normal. When it was time to leave, he hurried out just as quickly as he'd come. He didn't notice he was being followed until ten minutes later.

"What do you want?" It seemed a simple greeting was beyond him.

"To help you," I said, as if it were the most natural thing to say to him, when in actuality I was shaking within. Why was I doing this? Hadn't I suffered enough humiliation at his hands?

"I don't need any help. Least of all from _you_."

I sighed and grabbed him by the elbow. He flinched and wrenched his arm away, sneering venomously at me and my audacity. Physical contact always worked with Harry and Ron where words failed.

"You're not yourself," I informed him. "You're pale and tired all the time. Something is draining you. What's happened?"

"Listen to me," he hissed, and this time it was him who grabbed me, yanking me towards him by my shirt collar. I could barely breathe, but I wasn't about to struggle free and miss this. "Nothing you could possibly do could alter my world, so take your filthy nose out of my business."

He let me go and I stumbled back into a wall.

"You might be surprised," I said cautiously.

His nostrils flared and he turned away.

"All I wish to do is repay my debt to you. I can't stand knowing that I owe _you_. It's not something I'm willing to carry with me for the rest of my life."

"You want to help me?" he shouted, still looking in the opposite direction. "Then stay the hell away from me!"

"Ok."

He turned back around very slowly, his eyes set and fixed on me.

"Ok?" he repeated in a whisper.

"Ok. If that's what it takes to be cleared of my debt, then ok. Are we agreed then?"

He nodded.

"Alright. Good night then."

"Good…good night."

* * *

Four months passed. It was August now, and Harry, Ron, and I were living in the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters. We had little to do, because the adults were still reluctant to give us big assignments, and so most of the time we sat around and tried to work up plans to trick them into giving us better work. I also spent a great deal of time studying.

I bolted upright out of bed and clamored to my feet. Had I just heard a crash and a scream downstairs? Or was that the lasting remnants of my dream? I couldn't be sure, and so I walked slowly out the door and onto the landing, my ears perked. There was a deep, foggy silence in the air, and there was something fragile about it, as if it would burst apart at any moment and wake the entire house.

I crept carefully past the portrait of Sirius's mother, thankful when it made not a sound. I made sure to walk extra slow on the stairs so they wouldn't creak, then jumped softly—having to skip the last step—to the ground floor.

The foyer was bustling by the time I arrived, and my astonishment was too great to keep myself hidden any longer.

"Malfoy?" I gasped, stepping into the group that consisted of six Order members and a ghost-white former Hogwarts student. "What in Merlin's name—"

"The Dark Lord is going to kill me!" he blurted out, his voice ragged and trembling. I hadn't heard him this scared since he was thirteen and Buckbeak tore at his arm. "I failed him, again, and he's going to kill me…"

"How are we to know this isn't some trick developed to steal our information and whereabouts?" Mad-Eye Moody asked stiffly.

"Because he would have not been able to find our headquarters, much less be allowed to cross the threshold if his intentions were such," Professor McGonagall informed us. "You know very well the extra measures of caution we placed on this house after Dumbledore's death." The tiny mock-room went frigid; Dumbledore was still an extremely sore subject. "Besides, he came alone, which means this month's Secret Keeper felt he was trustworthy enough to enter. Malfoy," she said, addressing him. "Where is Remus Lupin?"

"Here, Minevra," came my former-Professor's soft voice. He walked into the foyer, a hearty sandwich consisting of mostly raw meat in his hand. I cringed at the sight. _Werewolves_. "Come, all of you," he said, his animalistic eyes scanning the group and landing on me. He smiled and I smiled back. "I'll explain everything over tea in the kitchen." The group sighed collectively, but did as they were asked. As Secret Keeper, Lupin was high authority this month. "Hermione?"

He stopped me just outside the kitchen. I frowned.

"Don't be presumptuous," he laughed. "You're not going to miss a thing." At this I relaxed. I thought for sure he was going to tell me to leave as most of the other adults did. I should have expected more from him. "I simply wish you to wake your friends and bring them down. They'll need to hear this too."

"Of course," I said, then rushed back upstairs as fast and as quietly as my legs would carry me.

* * *

After the tale was told and the shouting ceased, the Order members filed out of the kitchen to tend to their individual assignments. Draco sat, his head down, at the long, dirty table. It was only now that I noticed the smears of reddish brown on his cheeks and robes, the cuts on his arms and throat, the large purple bruise on his jawbone. His muzzed hair had been immediately apparent, for I had never seen it out of place so terribly before. He looked as though the entire world had just finished signing his execution papers and were off preparing the guillotine.

"Hermione," Harry said from the doorway, Ron behind him. "Come on. You said you'd go over those hexes with us tonight."

"You go on ahead," I told them, waving them away. "Re-read the notes I gave you. I'll be right up."

"But—"

"Please," I sighed, giving them one of those looks I knew would win me the tiff.

"Alright," Harry caved. "But if you're not up in fifteen—"

"Yes dad," I laughed, and watched them walk away, Ron's eyes on Malfoy as long as he could before he disappeared behind the wall.

I waited to hear the double squeak (because there was two of them) of the first stair, then approached the kitchen table, opting not to sit. I wanted to give him as much distance as possible.

I was about to speak, when he beat me to it.

"You defended me," he said, his eyes still on his lap.

"You deserved it," I replied, then walked over to the sink. I fished around in the drawers a moment before I found two clean towels. I turned on the faucet, allowing the water to run warm, then soaked one of the rags until it was soft and wet and warm. When I returned to the table, he was staring at me. I ignored this as best as I could, taking a seat at the head of the table; he was sitting on the left side at the end, so if we reached our arms out we would touch and create a right angle. "May I?" I asked, holding the wet towel up to his face.

He hesitated a moment, then nodded.

"You were a right git at Hogwarts," I told him as I gently rubbed the warm clothe over his cheeks to remove the blood and dirt.

"I know."

"I hated you for years because of it." I now held the dry clothe and was dabbing his face softly, the way I imagined I would dry my own child. "And I hate hating people," I said, lifting his chin with one hand while I examined his cuts and bruises. "Which made me hate you even more."

"I don't see what I can do about that now," he murmured, wincing the tiniest bit as my finger made contact with a fresh bruise.

"I suppose I'm trying to let you know how strange this is to me."

"What is?"

"That I don't hate you anymore…I pity you, but I don't _hate_ you."

I stood up and deposited the bloody towels in the trash bin. I nearly gasped when I turned around and he was standing, only three feet away.

"It's because of me Dumbledore is dead," he said, his eyes narrow and fiery. I didn't know what he was trying to tell me, because what he'd said was more than obvious. And so I waited and let him continue, suppressing the urge to run. I had never seen him like this before; so focused, so determined, so _human_. It scared me more than I care to admit. "I know that, you know that. I stole him from you and the others, and I broke you in more ways than I know…because I really don't know. I have never cared for anyone as much as you all cared for that man. I don't understand it, and maybe I never will, but I do know that…that I'm sorry."

I must have stared at him for a full two minutes before I was able to comprehend his words and what they meant to him, and to me. Did I believe him? Was he truly sorry? Or was this just another game to get in good with us? I knew he wasn't evil, that he'd been scared and cowardly, and that the only reason he was here was because if he hadn't found us he would have been dead long ago. So then he would need to maintain his innocence and remorse throughout the war in order to remain alive. But was that all there was to it? I couldn't know, and I didn't know then if I had the energy to try to find out.

"I…accept your apology."

It was the first time I'd seen a genuine smile on his lips. It looked almost fake, but then I had nothing to compare it to, and so I assumed it was real. He must not have been used to it, which made me feel almost sad for him. Almost. He still had a long way to go to earn my trust.

"Let me show you to your room," I said after a long pause. Normally silence is a blessing for me, for my studying, but certainly not when I'm alone in a room with Draco Malfoy.

"Ok," he said, then stepped aside for me to pass and lead the way.

"Here we are." I opened the last door at the end of the hall on the fifth floor; the only other Order members who lived up here were Moody and a small witch from France who spoke no English. I thought it was fitting that he stayed up here, away from the others. I still don't know if I did it _for_ him or to punish him. "There's a bathroom on the forth floor you can use; third door on the right, just past the growling bear carpet."

He went in, and this is when I noticed the way he walked, that he put more pressure on his right leg than his left. After he took a seat on the already-made bed, I decided not to bother him back his leg; I'd already interfered with his life too much this evening. And besides, what did it matter to me that he was hurt and limping? He was an adult now, he could take care of himself just fine without me.

"Thanks," he said suddenly, as if I had just handed him a cup of tea.

I didn't know what exactly he was thanking me for, and for some reason I was angry with him for that. But I held my wits in and said, "Sure. Good night then."

"Good night."

* * *

I breathed deeply the scent of freshly roasted turkey, homemade mashed potatoes, steaming bread, and apple pie that was cooling by the stove. Mrs. Weasley had gone all-out and I thanked her with a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. It had been months, nearly three, since I'd had real food like this, since I was at headquarters, since Harry, Ron, and I left to find a Horcrux. The mission had been a success, the Horcrux destroyed. And we only sustained minor injures and four ambushes from Death Eaters—a new record.

"This is delicious, Mrs. Weasley," I beamed, a very unladylike chunk of bread in my cheek.

"Well you children are so _thin_," she sighed, still clutching poor Ron's arm, as if she could keep him from leaving again. "I thought you packed enough food for the trip."

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then all three of us burst into peals of painful laughter.

I didn't see Malfoy that day until nearly eleven at night. I was sitting in one of the studies on the second floor, the one with the trick handle that required a password and/or a limerick; Lupin had thought it was the funniest thing in creation, for about three days. He now did his work on the third floor. The trick door didn't bother me so much, and I sort of grew fond of it, especially because it meant I was almost guaranteed privacy and solitude.

Almost.

"Whose there?" I called, setting my notes and quill on the table beside me; I was never very fond of desks and would rather have my work in my lap, my legs tucked comfortably under me.

"It's me."

My curiosity got the better of me and I allowed him entrance, shutting the door with a click behind him. I pointed to the chair across from mine, then sat back down. He didn't.

"I have a lot of work to do, Malfoy," I said, gesturing to the notes and stacks of books beside me. "McGonagall wants my full report the day after tomorrow. I haven't a minute to spare, so what is it that you think I could help you with?"

He seemed slightly taken aback by my words, as if I had never been short or cold with him. And that's when it hit me.

"Just because I've shown you kindness, doesn't change a thing. And just because I no longer hate you, doesn't mean I _like _you. In fact, I was one of the ones who voted for you _not_ to stay here…Now that that's out of the way, can I help you with something? Or are you just going to stand there and stare at me all evening?"

"You don't trust me, and that's fine—"

"I never said I didn't trust you."

He gave me a look and I sighed.

"Sorry. Continue please." Arrogant prat.

"As I was saying," he went on, his hand now resting on the back of the large leather chair I'd offered to him, "you don't trust me, and neither does the rest of the house. You keep me here as a prisoner, not an ally. Only McGonagall, Moody, and you will look at me, let alone speak to me. And I'm not saying I don't deserve it," he said quickly, because I had been about to say something to that effect, "but, if someone would just hear me out, I could be a valuable asset to the Order. I have informa—"

"Ok, stop there." I'd had enough. It didn't matter what he'd been saying, because all I could hear was his prissy aristocratic voice, beating my brain to death with his snobbery. It was sickening and I couldn't stand it any longer. "We already have all the information we need. So unless you know where a Horcrux is, then—"

"That's exactly what I know."

I dropped the quill I'd been twirling between my fingers, leaving a thin trail of ink on my jeans. I didn't care, though, because all I could think were those simple five words, ringing relentlessly in my skull. I must have clutched the armrest, or made some other frantic gesture, because Malfoy stepped towards me, cautiously, as if he were checking that I was still alive.

"That can't be possible," I breathed, looking him directly in the eye. "Why would Voldemort—"

"He didn't. Listen." He bent down—his leg must have healed since I was gone—and grabbed my wrist, slipping something hard and cold and metal into my hand. "Call a meeting tomorrow night, and I'll explain everything. I would have destroyed it myself if I thought I could."

He stood to leave, but I yanked him back and he nearly fell into my lap.

"What's this for?" I held up the small silver oval; a locket without a chain.

"When your house was raided in July, one of the Death Eaters stole this from your mother. The same Death Eater who was the only one privy to the information I have for you."

My eyes began to sting and I blinked back tears, looking down so that he couldn't see my face. I hadn't seen my parents since that night; they were sent into hiding and had Order members guarding them round the clock. It was too dangerous to bring them here, and it was out of the question for me to go there, to protect them myself. I didn't know when I would see them again, when this war would end, when I could finally start my life.

"What happened to the Death Eater?" I asked, unable to bring myself to open the locket. It was so obvious now; it was my mother's, given to her by her mother, and so on. It was simple and beautiful, and inside was three pictures: my mother, my father, and myself. I didn't know if I could bear to look at them and not be able to hug them.

This was the second time I saw him smile, only this time there was something cold and cruel behind it.

"I never said he gave up the information willingly."

And then he was gone. And I cried.

* * *

So Malfoy's story went like this:

After his mess-up with Dumbledore he knew he was done for, the only question was when and how and if there would be a body left to bury once Voldemort was done with him. As him and Snape ran back to one of their many meeting places—which took several weeks, because each time they reached one it seemed to have _just_ been deserted—Malfoy had plenty of time to imagine horrid ways in which they could both die, each one more gruesome than the last.

It was during these morbid fantasies that he came to a sudden and terrifying realization: he was going to die.

After that, it didn't take long for him to see what a terrible mistake he'd made. He was living the life of a bum, dirty and starving in the woods, and for what? An all-powerful lord who could care less about him? He was surprised and angry that it had taken him this long to see the reality of his situation.

He told this to Snape immediately and suggested ways in which they could get out of their dilemma, how they could win over the Order of the Phoenix and live out their lives. Snape was against it, knowing that there was no possible way the Order would take them in.

During the night, when Snape was sleeping, Malfoy made a run for it. He never looked back and hasn't heard word from his former mentor since. He believes him to be dead.

It wasn't for another week that Malfoy came across another person; and a Death Eater no less. He didn't know the man's name, but he knew his face, knew his status in the ranks. He was one of the closest to Voldemort; he was the enemy now.

Malfoy instantly put up a block on his mind, shielding his thoughts. He wasn't about to get killed or captured now after escaping and surviving this long.

"What are you doing so far from camp, boy?" the man sneered, his teeth yellow and rotting. "And where is that hideous teacher you follow?"

"Snape is none of my concern," Malfoy said sharply, with authority. "It's you who I was looking for."

The man seemed surprised, but intrigued.

"And what could a little thing like you want with me? I'm too high up for you."

"The Dark Lord suspects you of being allied with the Order." It wasn't true, but Malfoy made it sound believable. And with no way of penetrating his mind, the Death Eater had no choice but to believe him. "He sent me to collect you."

"That's impossible. I have _never _said or done a thing to cause—"

"Do you think that matters! You're up for review and…and you're whining about semantics!? You have more important things to worry about!"

It was at this point, noting Malfoy's desperation, that the Death Eater realized he was being set-up. But he wasn't able to draw his wand fast enough, and fell to the forest floor with a great thud.

Hours later he came to, bound and gagged, with Malfoy standing over him. He didn't need to say a word, extracting the information from his mind as readily as reading a book. Having been unconscious and wounded for so long, the Death Eater was too weak and powerless to stop him.

"Anything you have to say for yourself?" Malfoy asked, his wand raised.

"Mark my words, boy, you _will_ meet your fate at the hands of the Dark Lord. And it will be sooner than you could imagine."

There was a flash of green light and the man was still.

Malfoy stepped back and stared. All he could do was stare.

He was the first and only person Malfoy had killed. And he didn't know just then how he felt about that.

* * *

"You didn't have to kill him," was what most of the Order members said after his story. Some had pity for him, while others saw him as a murderer, a Death Eater.

"Yes," he insisted sharply, "I did. Otherwise he would have informed Voldemort of what I'd done and moved the Horcrux before I could get here to tell you."

"If time was an issue," McGonagall said, "then why did you wait three months to tell us?"

"Because," he sighed, shaking his head, "that's how long it takes for him to feel safe again, to be certain that he's still winning. The guards at that location will be only a handful by now; most of them low ranking and inadequate."

"There's only one problem with your story," Harry said, narrowing his eyes.

"And what's that?" Malfoy sneered back.

"I destroyed that Horcrux already; last week in fact. Your information is useless."

Everyone stood to leave.

"Wait!" I cried, calling them back. "But he was right."

I received nothing but blank stares and angry scowls. I was wasting their time, they thought.

"You may have already destroyed the Horcrux, Harry, but what Malfoy said was still accurate, which means…" I trailed off here, my entire body suddenly hot and prickly. The sensation was enough to make me want to crawl into bed and never come out. "Which means we can trust him."

* * *

"A first year could do this assignment," Malfoy groaned, digging his fingers into his scalp. "Isn't there something—"

"You have to start somewhere," I reminded him, and took a piece of parchment from his lap. "Besides, this could be a lot more dangerous than you think. Just trust me; once you've gotten a few of these out of the way you'll have real assignments like the rest of us."

He only groaned again and took the paper back. He was lucky, too, that I didn't slap him. He was acting so childish!

It was a few hours later that I noticed a cramp in my leg and decided to take a short break.

"Want to come with me and get some tea?"

"Anything but this," he said, immediately jumping to his feet. I laughed before I could stop myself, then slapped my hand over my mouth, as if he wouldn't notice either. I could see it in his face that he wanted to say something, to jab me in some way that was all too natural to him. Instead, however, he rolled his eyes in a comical sort of way (or as comical as Malfoy could ever be) and murmured, "_Girls_," before leading the way downstairs.

"Oh this is heavenly," I breathed into the steaming mug of tea. "Do you like it?"

Malfoy took a rather large gulp and nodded.

"Did you put honey in it?" he asked, licking his lips hungrily.

"Since I was three."

It was his turn to laugh, only this time neither of us acknowledged it and continued to drink our tea.

"Can you believe this?" I blurted out suddenly, voicing my inner thoughts. I was too mortified for a moment to realize he was answering me.

"Believe what?"

I sucked in a silent breath. What in Merlin's name was I getting myself into?

"Us," I answered almost hoarsely. "This." I gestured between us, at the tea, at the room. "Me and Draco Malfoy are sitting in the kitchen of the Order of the Phoenix headquarters having a spot of tea. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

He nodded in agreement, but the look on his face suggested otherwise.

"What?"

"I don't know," he said with a shrug. "I suppose I haven't given it much thought because…well, I just haven't."

"No, tell me," I insisted, subconsciously sliding my hand across the table to touch his. He didn't notice, or if he did, he said nothing about it. "Because of what?"

"Because," he sighed, annoyed, "if I thought about it too much I…I wouldn't be…I wouldn't be able to enjoy it. Alright?" He crossed his arms rigidly over his chest and looked at the clock on the wall. "I should get to bed," he said, frowning, and stood. "Thanks for the tea."

"Good night, Draco."

"Good night."

* * *

I must have fallen asleep on the couch in the den again, because the next thing I knew I was being carried up the stairs to my bed. That wasn't the odd part, because Harry and Ron and Lupin were prone to putting me to bed, since I didn't seem to find my own way there very often. No, the odd thing was that the person carrying me wasn't Harry or Ron or Lupin or even Mr. Weasley. It was Draco.

"Thanks," I muttered into his chest.

He was so startled I was awake that he nearly dropped me right there on the second floor landing.

"Sure," he said after a moment.

"You know," I yawned, the sleep having not fully left me yet. "This is the second time you've carried me, Malfoy. I might be inclined to think you don't hate me so much now either."

He glared down at me, and for a moment I thought he might set me down and continue on to his own room. But he didn't, and carried me the whole way, even going so far as to lay me on my bed. I can't say that I wasn't a little more than nervous; this was too intimate, too sweet. Who was this man that had taken the form of Draco Malfoy? I wanted to know, but didn't dare ask, didn't dare ruin the moment, whatever it was.

"Good night, Granger," he said, and turned to leave. I grabbed his hand and pulled him back, forcing him to sit on the bed beside me.

"Don't be in such a damn hurry all the time," I laughed. "Now tell me about your mission. McGonagall wouldn't say a thing about it to me."

He cracked a smile, then proceeded to tell me the good news. This had been his fifth junior assignment and she now believed he was ready for a real assignment.

"She wouldn't tell me who with, however."

"That's strange," I mused, furrowing my brow in thought. "She wouldn't tell me who I was stationed with either. She said we were all going to sit down together and—Wait. When did you say you were meeting with McGonagall tomorrow?"

"I didn't. It's at seven."

Something within me jostled to life.

"Malfoy," I said, looking at him, "I think you're paired with me."

I expected him to be angry, to ask to be reassigned, to pout and whine the way he'd always done. But then I realized that he was different now, that he wasn't the boy I knew at Hogwarts, and that he had just selflessly brought me to bed without being asked.

He smiled.

"Good. Sleep well, Granger."

"You too, Malfoy. Good night."

* * *

There was magic in the air. And no, I don't mean Malfoy and I fell desperately in love, not _that_ kind of magic. What I mean is that there was quite literally magic hanging in a haze in the air before us. It was nearly transparent, something no Muggle could have seen no matter how hard they tried. No untrained witch or wizard could have seen it either. It's one of those things that can only be seen by a skilled witch or wizard _if _they are looking for it. And we certainly had been, for at least half a day.

The small town was called Little Turrins, and it was situated snuggly in a valley between two reasonably large mountains. It was an all-magic community, hidden carefully from Muggles by many of the same means as Hogwarts. In other words, it appeared to be an abandoned village, a ghost town, and when Muggles came near it they suddenly had the urge to be elsewhere.

It seemed, too, that the magic townspeople had been warded off as well. Though by a much deadlier brand of magic.

Death Eaters had been here. That much was certain.

We toed the edge of the village, the imaginary line drawn in the snow (for it was January now and it had been snowing steadily for the past few days). We knew it was the edge, because beyond it, in the area behind us, there was no presence of magic.

"Well we know one thing," Malfoy said, looking directly ahead of us at the village that we could only see because of our magical abilities.

"That they've been here recently," I said.

"Exactly. Any longer than four days and we wouldn't have known unless we searched every house."

"Well I suggest we do that regardless. There can't be more than fifty houses here; it's a small village. It won't take us more than two days."

"Less if we split up," he said, and gestured out with both arms. "I'll take the left side and you can have the right. We'll be back to headquarters by tomorrow night."

"Malfoy," I sighed, shaking my head. "That would be the stupidest thing we could do right now."

"And why's that?" he scoffed. Clearly he thought his idea was brilliant.

"Voldemort wants you dead, you twit!"

"I think _I_ know better than anyone."

"Don't get hissy with me! I'm trying to protect you, and you're back-talking!"

"I don't need your protection, Granger."

"_Clearly_ you do, otherwise you wouldn't have _begged_ to be admitted into our headquarters."

He opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again, made a deep-throated sort of growl, then marched on ahead into Little Turrins. I entertained the idea of following him for a split second before deciding that if he wanted to be stubborn and get killed then that was his choice. What did I care? He was the cause of a good percentage of my tears during Hogwarts. Let him die.

I entered the first house I came to on the right, a small green thing with few windows and no front door. Well, at least there was no front door in the doorway. Pieces of splintered and charred wood on the floor looked as though they could have once been a door. I stepped over them, ignoring the dull throb in my gut that told me there had been an attack in this house, life had been taken, tears had been cried.

I stepped into the living room and immediately thought of my own house, of how it had looked when I got there, before I saw my parents for the last time, before I even knew they were alive. Furniture was overturned, torn and broken. A mirror was shattered in the corner, and a clock too. The drapes were ripped, and the coffee table was smashed into near-sawdust. And, in the middle of it all, on the floor, was a broken frame holding a family portrait.

I gasped. I couldn't help it. So much damage, so much hatred. It was enough to make me want to vomit.

It wasn't until I reached my sixth house that I found anything of significance, anything different than what I'd seen in the others.

There was a body. A woman. And she was still alive.

I swallowed my fear and approached her, lying face-up on the floor. Her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell so faintly that I wondered how I noticed at all. Because it wasn't her breathing that told me she was alive; I just _knew_ it. But I also knew that she would die soon, in moments perhaps. She certainly wouldn't live for another hour. And there was nothing I could do.

I went on to search the rest of the house. I found identification for her. Her name was Delilah Marks. She was 41 and widowed. And when I went back into the foyer where she lay, she was dead.

I tucked her ID into my robes, silently promising her that news of her death would reach any family she had left. I had done this numerous times on other missions; it was not something I looked forward to.

The instant I walked out of Delilah Marks' house I knew something wasn't right. My fear told me to stay put, my conscience told me to go.

"Please be wrong," I whispered as I ran from the house and into the only one with light in it down the road. It was dusk by now and the faint glow of an illuminated wand could be seen in one of the back windows. "Please be wrong." Wrong about my gut feeling, wrong that Malfoy was in danger. Because, if he was, then it would be my fault. I should have followed him no matter how stubborn and snotty he was. I was a member of the Order of the Phoenix for Merlin's sake! What was wrong with me?

I found them in the den, standing beside a cold fireplace, staring into one another's eyes. They could have been immobilized for all I knew, so still were their bodies.

And then I saw the blood, dripping in slow motion, down Malfoy's arm. There was a pool of it on the floor next to him, and yet neither seemed to notice.

Bellatrix LeStrange held the bloody knife at her side, ignoring my presence, ignoring her own stupidity. How she had been blinded for so long by such ridiculousness was beyond me. But I wasn't surprised, of course. After all, other than Draco, only two other Death Eaters had denounced their Lord and joined our side. They were our runners, older wizards who joined our team far too late in life and could now only pick up and deliver certain things with a low level of security. Our trust in them was directly related to how well they did their job, and for the most part they were trustworthy, because if we didn't protect them then Voldemort would surely exact some sort of revenge. And if they didn't care about living then they wouldn't have come to us in the first place.

"Drop the knife and your wand, or I'll kill you right here," I said through my teeth, pointing my wand directly at her chest. I didn't know at that moment if I had it in me to kill her, to kill anyone, but I certainly felt compelled to. And, if I did, she would be the first. And my life would change forever.

"And I'm supposed to be frightened by a dirty mudblood?" she laughed, her eyes still trained on her nephew. "This matter is between Draco and I, you filth. Leave before _I_ kill _you_."

I don't know what came over me. I lunged at her. I _lunged_ at her. I didn't hex her, didn't curse her, didn't try to kill her. I jumped at her like a simple Muggle, my hands out at her throat. She paralyzed me instantly and I fell hard to the floor, feeling my back crack unnaturally.

The world around you becomes muted when you're in this state. I don't know what it is—maybe the fact that your entire body is numb and so your ears and eyes become numb too. Or maybe it just appears that way and it's only your imagination. Either way, I couldn't see properly, couldn't hear but muffled mumbling from above me. Someone was shouting, and I heard a word here and there, but other than that I might as well have been in a coma.

I don't know how much time passed. It could have been hours for all I knew, but very suddenly I was able to move again, to hear and see again. I turned my head ever so slightly to the side, to see Draco and his hateful aunt. It only took me a fraction of a second to jump to my feet after that, for Draco was forced against the fireplace, Bellatrix's wand shoved painfully into his neck.

"Aveda Kedavra!"

The body fell to the floor, surprisingly making hardly a sound. My wand, however, was deafening as the two different woods collided.

I couldn't move, couldn't speak, could barely see. I must have been in a state of shock, my body seizing up, tightening my heart, my lungs.

"You…you killed her," he whispered. "You killed her…for _me_."

"I…I need to be outside," I gasped, scrambling for the door. I vomited the instant my knees made contact with the frosty snow; something milky and soupy, hardly a thing. It took me a good ten minutes to get my breathing calmed back to normal, and once I did, I realized that I was still alive, that Draco was alive too, and that Bellatrix LeStrange was dead and I had killed her.

I sprang forward and into his arms. I was alive and breathing and I simply couldn't control my actions. My endorphins were as crazed as I must have seemed to him, who only stared at me intently as his arm supported me around the waist.

He pulled something from his cloak, a canteen, and lifted it to my lips. I drank hungrily, deeply, and thanked him.

There's something about the eyes, the way they shift suddenly the very second before someone begins to lean in. He must have seen that look in my eyes, because his arm tightened around me, his fingertips pressed hard into my back.

I kissed him. I kissed Draco Malfoy and the world didn't end.

"You cut your lip," I informed him when we pulled apart for air; I could taste the bitterness of his blood on my tongue. Somehow I didn't mind.

"Sorry," he said, scowling to himself as he rubbed his lip with his sleeve. "I didn't realize."

I was going to say that I didn't mind, when I decided actions suited my purpose better and I leaned in again. He pulled me all the way onto his lap this time, cradling my body that seemed to fit so nicely against his. Not only did he taste of blood, but sweat from the battle, with a tinge of mint. I knew my mouth must have tasted the same, which meant neither of us cared, which meant more than I wished to think on at the moment. For once in my life I was going to focus on the moment at hand and give my brain a rest.

His right hand traveled up my body, from my waist to my neck, his fingers curling around behind my ear. I nearly moaned; the minuscule sensation was almost too much for me. How long had it been since a boy touched me? Or with the same tender urgency? Because he was eager, no matter how slow his movements were. They had fuel behind them; I could feel it.

"This is insane," I whispered, one of my hands having found its way into his hair as well. "Draco, what are we doing?"

"You called me Draco," he commented, ignoring my question. "You have before."

"We should get back. The others will worry." But I didn't make a move to go. And neither did he.

"We're not expected back for days." He gestured with his head towards the packs we'd been carrying. "Why not stay here at least one night?"

"Because you're Draco Malfoy," I stated. "And I'm Hermione Granger. We…We don't—"

"Until now," he breathed huskily, his hands back to roaming my skin; he was under my blouse, and for the first time this fact did not terrify me, but electrified me.

"Grab the sleeping back," I said, pushing him at our things. "We can set up the tent aft—later."

He looked at me with mock-shock, then grinned ear to ear, as if he were the one child on Christmas morning who got their pony.

"After, huh?" he laughed, rolling out the sleeping bag. I slapped him on the arm.

"Not if you're a git," I warned.

He tackled me to the ground without a second's hesitation. I breathed in his warm, masculine scent. Something like aftershave, though I could never imagine him with facial hair, and shampoo.

"Draco," I whispered as his fingers worked to undo my blouse.

"Hmm?" He was focused and it made me want to laugh.

"I…I'm a…virgin."

His ministrations ceased immediately. I swore in my head, then sat up on my elbows.

"I didn't say, 'Stop'," I groaned, pulling him closer to me by his belt.

"Hermione, I can't…You can't be with me. Not the first time."

"And why not?" I decided not to mention that he called me by my first name; I didn't want to ignite the fire that was surely to come.

"I _tortured_ you for six years," he said, as if I didn't know that. "How can _I_ then be the first…the first person to…How can I take your virginity? Merlin! What am I even saying! You're Hermione Granger for heaven's sake! I can't…We can't…Oh fuck."

"Then repay me," I said, lifting his chin with my hand. I grabbed his wrist and led his hand to my chest, which was nearly exposed from when he'd been undressing me moments before. I pressed his hand on my breast and said, "Repay me by giving me what I want and I'll absolve you of your misdeeds against me."

He smiled in a way that told me he would love more than anything to do just that, but that his guilt was holding him back. My heart quivered—Draco Malfoy actually _cared_ about _me_.

"Not me," he repeated, lowering his eyes and removing his hand.

"And if I don't want anyone else?"

His head snapped up and he looked at me with such astonishment I might have just said his grandmother was a dirty old tramp.

"What about—"

"I've waited too long for Ron to show interest in me," I said honestly. And it was true. After we came to the headquarters and spent most of our time together, much of which was alone, I thought for sure he was going to make a move. But it never happened and I doubt it ever will. "Besides, I've grown fond of you. That," I laughed, "and you made me want to rip your clothes off. So if you're not naked in the next five minutes then I'll just have to use my wand on you."

"If someone had told me Hermione Granger threatened me with her wand in order to sleep with me, I would have punched them in the face."

"Less talk," I whispered, tugging him back to me. "More action."

* * *

I opened my eyes to the warm rays of sun pushing in behind the drapes that were not quite closed. I unzipped my sleeping bag and climbed out of bed, wondering if Draco was awake as well and if he was as hungry as myself. We hadn't eaten since midday the day before, having been so distracted with our mission and the appearance of Bellatrix LeStrange. I still couldn't figure out why she, of all the Death Eaters, would be the one to come after us. Of course we had been expecting opposition, but some so high in the ranks? It didn't make much sense, if any. But one thing I was sure of—Bellatrix wouldn't have come had Draco not been here.

The kitchen in the house we'd chosen was adequate for our needs, providing a stove with which to cook food, and water from a faucet if we needed it. There was a short rectangular table against one wall, with three chairs. Draco occupied one of these.

"I'd like to thank you," I said, coming to stand beside him. His head was down and in front of him was a lukewarm cup of tea. The cup was cracked on one side and missing half its handle. It was still functional, however, which was more than I could say about most everything else in this house.

"For?" he asked monotone, his voice slightly hollow from what I assumed was lack of sleep.

"Your discretion," I replied, then walked to the stove where he'd put on the tea. I turned on the front burner, watching for a moment as the blue flame licked the underside of the kettle. Then I turned back around, unsurprised that he was still staring into his untouched tea. "I was hysterical last night; my wits weren't with me. I apologize for my forwardness and if I've made our situation awkward."

My answer came when he finally looked up at me. I can't describe properly the way he looked at that moment, nor can I explain my feelings, therefore I won't even try.

"Alright then," I said, because there was nothing more I could say, or at least nothing profound crossed my mind, and so I changed the subject. "Are you hungry? I'll fix something for you if you'd like."

I was thankful when he answered me, his demeanor and tone suggesting we had never kissed, let alone been civil to one another.

"Toast with jam if you have it."

I rummaged through my pack, which I'd left on the counter yesterday, and found a small box. This I set on the floor, then pointed my wand at it, said the correct words, and before our eyes it expanded to three times its size. Opening the lid, I smiled. There was plenty of toast and jam. I pulled these out, and several eggs too. Breakfast simply isn't breakfast without eggs.

"Would you like orange juice, pumpkin juice, or milk with your breakfast?"

He mumbled something that sounded close to "pumpkin", and so that's what I gave him. He didn't complain.

After breakfast, we readied ourselves to go outside and finish our search of the village. We contemplated leaving our packs in the house, for it would certainly make the job easier, but decided against it. If, for some reason, a Death Eater happened upon them then our cover would be blown, they would know we were there before we even suspected we'd been found.

"Can we stay together this time?" I asked. I was standing several paces behind him, clutching my cloak against the slight winter wind.

"That would be wise," came his reply. I was still too caught up in the events of the previous day and evening to give his answer much thought, or even much attention. Otherwise, being enemies that we were, I might have been inclined to comment on how _unwise_ he'd stubbornly been yesterday. But I didn't say this, and it was the beginning of something new and different between us, a truce of sorts, because I am almost positive he wouldn't have phrased his answer in such a way had he not been expecting a heated reaction. He was testing me, and for now I was passing, which I don't doubt surprised him a great deal. This is all speculation, of course, but from early on in my life I'd been able to read people quite accurately. Draco, though in a different and ancient language, could still be deciphered with a good amount of effort.

To this day I haven't figured him out completely, but what I have found was enough to change my mind about him, and because of that he changed my entire world.

* * *

"It's too dark to go back tonight."

Draco stopped what he was doing, which had been packing his bag, and looked at me, almost accusingly. We had gone all day without a single fight—he must have been boiling up the entire time. He looked on the verge of a war. No pun intended.

"We're finished here, Granger," he snapped gruffly. "We have no reason to stay."

"I can give you a hundred reasons!" Perhaps my nerves had been fraying today as well. I didn't know where the anger was coming from, but it felt good, and I let it go. "For starters, you know very well it is more probable for a Death Eater to be out at night. You're high on their list of enemies, Malfoy! They don't need a reason more than your presence to kill you. Not to mention the fact that our scouts won't be at the cross-over station until tomorrow morning. Oh yeah, and I killed Bellatrix LeStrange, don't forget that. Going now would be dangerous and stupid."

"Well forgive me for not wanting to stay here another night."

"We were hell-bent on it last night. Why the sudden change?" My voice was full of hatred and mockery. I should have been prepared for what he said next.

"Well if you weren't so quick to open your legs at the first sign of danger, I might not have been inclined to stay."

I shoved him so hard into the adjacent wall that I heard his back creak. My hands were in angry fists and held the front of his robes to the point that I made it difficult for him to breathe. Muted air came from his lungs in a raspy pant. I wanted to squeeze the life out of him, but instead I let go and stumbled back. I wanted also to remain strong and angry and composed, but instead I crumpled to the floor by the sink and cried silently into my hands.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, which was not my intention either. It was he who should be apologizing to me. But I had frightened myself, and on top of the bloody occurrence with Bellatrix yesterday, I simply couldn't hold it in. it was at this point that I remembered the knife she'd held and the gash on Draco's arm. "Are you hurt?"

"Don't flatter—"

"I meant your arm." Some of my sternness had returned at his apathy. "You were bleeding yesterday."

"And it took you this long to realize?"

"For Merlin's sake, Malfoy!" I cried, tears still wet on my face. "I was a _little_ distracted at the time! Why are you being this way? What could you possibly gain from it? I'm already crying!"

He allowed me to stand and go to him, to lift him sleeve and examine the scar until I was satisfied with his self-healing job.

I was still very close to him when he spoke.

"I can't make sense of anything anymore," he whispered, his voice heavy with what I later realized was emotion and his internal struggle with expressing it. "War and hatred are familiar. I know how to handle them. But you…" His hand was touching my face well before I became aware of it. "I can't figure you, I can't…handle you."

This time it was Draco who made the first move. Our lips touched and slid together with incredible ease. It was nowhere near as awkward as the first time, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been hoping for it.

"Don't deny me again," I breathed against his neck. But I don't think I needed to say it—not much could have stopped him this time.

We made our way to a bed, our clothes coming off as if of their own volition. I was naked and lying beneath him, and no matter how nervous or terrified I was, I couldn't think of a single place I'd rather be.

His hand was warm as he slipped it between us, between my legs. Even I wasn't aware of the intensity of my arousal. Casually he wiped his hand on the sheets, then put it back between us, this time taking hold of himself and guiding us together.

"Are you ready?" The gentleness of his voice surprised me and for a moment I couldn't speak. "Hermione?"

"Yes," I whispered, and kissed his forehead. "Yes, I'm ready."

The pain I expected.

The ecstasy I expected.

The look in his eyes I did not.

"Draco?…What's wrong?"

"I…I…it's nothing," he forced out, and I could see tiny beads of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. I wiped his face and kissed him hard on the mouth. This seemed to quell whatever haze had been about him and his focused zeroed back to me. I don't have words to explain the thoughts and feelings that ran ramped through my brain. My first shudder of release caught me entirely by surprise and I cried out, digging my wartime-worn nails into the taught flesh of his back. He winced slightly at this, but said nothing—he must have been expecting my outburst, which told me all I needed to know. He wasn't only _not_ a virgin, he was _experienced_.

My second release was even more intense than the first, and followed pantingly close by Draco's. He kissed my cheeks and nose, one of his hands up near my face, stroking my sweaty hair. Then very slowly, very gently, he slid out of me and laid beside me, his arm draped over my stomach.

I wanted to say something and nothing all at once.

"I'm so thirsty," was all that came out.

"Here," he said, having conjured up a glass of icy pumpkin juice. I thanked him by gulping it down ferociously, then conjured up some more and handed it to him. He drank more slowly and for a while nothing was said. "If this was never possible, then how did it happen?"

"It was always possible," I laughed softly. I wanted him again already. This must have been what subconsciously stopped me from having sex all those times before. I didn't fear the pain or the intimacy; I hadn't even wanted it to be particularly special or with the "right" person. No, what had scared me so much was my own desire. Somehow I knew once turned on (both literally and metaphorically), I could not be turned off. And leave it to me to lose my virginity in an abandoned house where people have been murdered.

"How do you figure?" His tone was duller now, a hint of a yawn behind it. He was tired, and here I was ready to go again.

"You made a choice, Draco. You chose good over evil—girls go wild over stuff like that."

He gave a short laugh, his fingers toying with the flesh around my belly button.

"Are you terribly tired?" I asked, trying to push my most recent though from my mind: we were lying in bed, naked and sweaty, having the "after sex" talk, the romantic talk, the one every girl dreams of and few ever get. It was so overwhelming I wanted to run. _Why Malfoy, of all people?_

"Why?" he asked, smiling up at me, then kissed the under side of my jawbone. "Ready for round two?"

"Only if you're ready for me." I yanked him up and out of bed before he could utter a reaction. "Come on. I saw a sofa in the living room."

He didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

This time when I awoke in a strange house I was not alone. Breathing heavily beside me—but not snoring, because heaven forbid a well-bred of high society _snored_—was Draco Malfoy. His parchment white hair stuck wildly on end, so much so that I burst into laughter at the sight of it; I never imagined Draco would get bed-messed hair. Somehow, if I'd ever even thought of it before, I pictured him rising peacefully from his slumber, his hair perfectly in place, his night clothes wrinkle-free, and his internal clock ready to begin the day. Of course if I had been imagining this way back when, then I would have been certain his waking thoughts were of evil and cruelty and laughing Death Eaters, an extension of the dreams he would surely have had.

"What's so funny?" he murmured drowsily, his eyes still closed. His limbs seemed to move on their own, tightening slightly around me, pulling me closer to him. I smiled at this, then frowned almost immediately. What in Merlin's name was I doing? Had the trauma of war effected me so badly I was actually in bed with my childhood enemy?

I closed my eyes and breathed deep. My lungs shuttered with the presence of new air. I knew without having to look tat Draco was staring at me. He'd sensed my discomfort. I didn't know in that moment whether or not he cared, and for now it didn't much matter. I had bigger problems to deal with.

"I'm going downstairs to make breakfast and pack my things," I informed him. He said nothing, and rolled over, away from me. He knew something was bothering me, knew I was upset. Neither of us, apparently, were brave enough to breech the subject, and so it went unsaid. I can't be sure if this was a good thing or not, but at the time I welcomed it graciously.

We ate our breakfast in silence, then Draco went to pack while I washed our dishes. I didn't really need to, considering this fact that we were in a ghost town, in an abandoned home, but I felt the need to be respectful nonetheless. Especially after what had happened the night before.

It was 8:30 am when we walked out of our two-day house. The front door clicked shut with a soft thud—it was one of three houses that still possessed a working handle, or even a door for that matter. I said good-bye to it silently and good-bye to Draco as well. Once we were with other Order members we could no longer acknowledge what occurred between us on our first and only mission together. I say "only", because as soon as I set foot at headquarters I was going straight to Professor McGonagall and asking to _never_ be assigned with Draco again. I absolutely could not let last night happen again.

It was nearly 11:00 by the time we reached the cross-over station. Moody and Lupin were already there when we arrived. Moody took a big swig from a flask, assuring us it wasn't Polyjuice Potion, a little joke he still thought was funny after all this time; and Lupin, ever-cordial, greeted Draco with a stiff handshake and me with a hug.

"We heard news your mission did not begin calmly," Lupin said, his eyes two pools of fatherly concern. "Bellatrix LeStrange was said to have discovered you."

"That she did," I answered, a valve in my chest tightening at the thought of her. My third year DADA teacher must have sensed something with his keen animalistic attributes, for a moment later he embraced me warmly and whispered words of comfort in my ear. "The first time is always the hardest." This statement startled me briefly before he continued. He couldn't possibly know what had transpired between Draco and I, could he? "What you must remember is how truly evil she was, and that had you hesitated then surely you would not still be here."

"Thank you," I whispered back before pulling away. I was surprised when I hadn't cried, hadn't even felt compelled to. I couldn't possibly have adjusted to what I'd done this quickly. But then there was no other explanation.

"McGonagall expects two separate and full reports from you both, due no later than tomorrow evening." This, I told him, would not be a problem. We'd already taken extensive notes at each house, recorded even the most miniscule detail just incase it proved important.

The hard part was over. I couldn't wait to get back and get started on my report; I couldn't wait to get back and avoid Draco.

* * *

"And you're certain this is what you wish for?" Professor McGonagall asked me, seeming to look directly into my soul, seeming to know what I was thinking and feeling. I had always wondered why she'd never had children; this only made me wonder more.

"Yes ma'am."

"I thought Mr. Malfoy and yourself got along rather well."

I prayed to whatever god there was that I wasn't blushing.

"I try my best to cooperate with everyone around me, Professor, but Malfoy…Let me say that we simply do not mesh. I get along with him because it is required of me. Please know that I wouldn't ask unless I felt it was interfering with my ability to do my work."

"Very well Miss Granger."

I turned to leave, when her hand touched my elbow.

"How are you feeling?"

"Well, Professor."

"I only ask because the situation with Bell—"

"I can handle it," I assured her, and walked out the door before she had another chance to stop me. I hope I was right; I hope I _can_ handle it.

"Granger."

I groaned loudly and gritted my teeth, not turning around to address him. So far my avoidance was failing miserably.

"You have to speak to me eventually," he said, coming around in front of me. I felt the space between my legs grow warm and cursed myself in my head. "We do work together after all."

"Not anymore we don't," I spat waspishly.

His eyes narrowed. He didn't believe me.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"McGonagall just agreed to never pair us up again." I knew it was harsh, but it was the only way I was going to keep him away. Because if I said and did what I truly wanted then we'd be shedding our clothes in the nearest locked room right now.

He stepped towards me and very slowly, very gently, reached up and touched my cheek, his thumb grazing the side of my mouth ever so slightly. I shuddered, I couldn't help it; him being so close and touching me in that soft and intimate way only a person who knew me inside and out could.

"Tell me you don't want me."

He leaned in, our lips nearly touching.

I closed my eyes.

"I…don't want you," I said, holding my voice steady.

He stepped even closer.

Our lips touched and for a moment I broke. I crumpled against him, breathing him in; he smelled of peppermint toothpaste and some type of generic shampoo (for he was no longer a little rich boy).

"No," I whispered, and pushed him back.

He smiled.

"Ok," he said, and he was gone, leaving me confused and humiliated in the corridor.

* * *

In the next six months that followed I rarely saw Draco at all. Sure he was at many of the meals I attended, but most of the time he was either in his room, or out on missions, which seemed to have tripled since the one we went on together. I had the inclination that he was asking for far more than he could handle, but he continued to receive the missions and do them exceptionally well, and so no one questioned his workload. Though I suspected that no one really cared all that much, considering he was a former-enemy turned ally. I praised my fellow Order members for their bravery and honor, but sometimes their pride could get the better of them, sometimes I think they don't see how much they're like the Death Eaters.

It was a strange six months. In that time, Ron _finally_ confessed his feelings for me. And though I had been waiting for it since I was a girl at Hogwarts, when the moment came I found myself being cold and distant. I feigned a time-consuming report and holed myself up in my room for several days, only coming out when I was certain no one else was around to grab a few slices of bread and some jam; for some reason I had become obsessed with toast and jam.

A few days was all it took for me to realize how terrible my behavior had been, and so I sought out Ron and sat him down. He was confused for the most part, and very much crushed—though he didn't show it—when I finally told him that I had been in love with him once, but now the feeling seemed to have dwindled to the love of a friend. He accepted this graciously, thanking me for my honesty. That was two months ago, and though things are still not quite the same, they're getting there. I don't doubt Ron will learn from this and, when the time comes again, he'll seize the opportunity and tell the new girl he loves how he feels before it's too late.

"Come in," I called absently, my quill still scribbling furiously on the parchment before me. I had a report due the next morning and, for some reason, I was struggling to complete it. I didn't understand why, because nothing in my life had been particularly stressful lately. But then, sometimes, the very thing you thought you had taken care of is the thing that's bothering you the most.

He walked in and stopped several feet from my desk, his hair longer than the last time I saw him. He'd been on assignment for the past week, and before that I had been gone nearly two weeks. This was the first time I'd seen him in nearly a month.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked, feeling a sense of déjà vu.

"No," he answered, then closed the gap between himself and the desk, resting the tips of his fingers on the worn wood. "I came to tell you something."

I sighed and set down my quill.

"Yes, Malfoy? What is it?"

"I'm leaving. Tomorrow. Indefinitely."

My reaction to this was much the same as to when Ron told me he loved me. I couldn't speak or move or do any of the things I wanted to or knew I should do. He seemed to have sensed my inability to respond, and so he continued on.

"I've spoken with McGonagall and that daft werewolf—" Here I regained some of my self and curled my nose. What did he mean _daft_? "—and we decided that I could better serve the Order away from headquarters." He paused, as if expecting me to say something. I didn't, or rather couldn't. What could I possibly say to this? "I'm going with Lowl, the senior runner. He will transfer information between the headquarters and myself."

"What…What is your mission?" Finally I found my voice.

"To find and recruit Death Eaters to the Order."

"But that's suicide!" I cried, jumping to my feet, my report forgotten. "How can they let you go!"

He smiled and for the life of me I could not figure why.

"What the bloody hell are you smiling about, Malfoy! This is serious!"

"You pretend you don't care," he said matter-of-factly, finally taking a seat in the chair on the other side of my desk from me. "You walk around this place and ignore me, acting as if I don't mean a thing to you. But when I tell you I'm leaving for good, all of a sudden my well-being matters."

Slowly I lowered myself back into my chair, suppressing a groan. What the hell was he trying to do?

"I don't pay attention to you," I said, choosing my words carefully, "because I don't want what happened on our mission to happen again, _not_ because I don't care about you. Of course I care! You're a valuable asset to this Order and—"

"Don't give me that 'valuable asset' crap, Hermione. You ran from me because you're afraid you _really_ care for me, and, to someone like you, that's the worst possible thing that could happen with someone like me. The sex was fine." I cringed at the last sentence. Did he have to be so crude? "You could handle that, because emotion isn't necessarily tied to it. But…well, I'm not going to put a label on it. It is what it is."

"Malfoy, what are you talking about?"

"Fine," he sighed, laying his hands on the desk to push himself to his feet. "I was so sure you were the type of person who didn't let opportunities pass by. I was wrong."

"Malfoy—"

"Good night, Hermione."

* * *

I don't know why I did it, but around 3:00 in the morning something inside of me snapped. I climbed out of bed, forgot to put on a robe or slippers, and went up to the fifth floor. Moody's light was still on, and I had no doubt in my mind he saw me with his magical eye, but I ignored this and proceeded to my destination.

When he opened the door he looked somewhere between surprised and tired. He stepped aside, allowing me entrance. His bag was already packed and lying on the floor below the window.

"You were right," I said, collapsing on his bed, my head in my hands. "I _do_ care about you. I care _a lot _about you, but—"

"But you can't let yourself," he laughed, shaking his head a little in a sad sort of way.

"I know it's terrible. I know it's stupid and cowardly, but…but I just…I can't."

He came towards me, kneeling in front of me, his hands on mine. He looked so calm and focused at that moment. And it was then that I realized what a truly great wizard he was, ruthless and considerate, hardheaded and careful. For so long I had thought of him as one-sided, one-dimensional, possessing only the attributes of a warrior and an aristocrat; I had been dead wrong.

"_You_ are the only person keeping me here," he told me, his eyes telling me how serious he was. "One word and I won't go. Tell me to stay and I will."

"Draco," I whispered, the tear ducts beneath my skin becoming swollen. I wanted to say so many things, to tell him how much I really did care, that I was beginning to love him, and how that fact was the single hardest thing I had ever done in my entire life. I wanted also to tell him to stay, the way he wanted me to, but I knew, somehow I knew, how impossible it would be. We had crossed paths as a fluke, a mistake, and our future simply was not mapped in the stars.

I kissed him hard on the mouth, pulling him to me and onto the bed. I may not have been able to tell him the way I felt with words, but I could certainly show him.

* * *

"You don't have to leave," I whispered, standing on the fifth floor landing with him. He was all suited up, his robes and cloak and boots on, his pack slung over his shoulder, wand stuck safely in a place he could reach easily. Downstairs, in the foyer, Lowl, McGonagall, and Lupin waited for him. "You don't."

"Yes," he stressed, letting go of my hand and stepping back. "I do."

He turned and made it as far as the first step before I couldn't take it and flung myself at him, covering his face and mouth with wild, furious kisses.

"I hate you," I breathed into his hair. "I hate you so much. Why did you do this to me?"

Draco Malfoy was a strong man, both physically and mentally. Because I knew that he felt the same as I did, even more so perhaps, and yet, even with me sobbing around his neck, he still remained stiff and placid, the picture of nobility.

"One word," he said, and pulled me off of him.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks, gulping down another sob.

_I love you_, I thought, my hands curling up under my chin like a child. _I love you _too_ much_.

I pursed my lips together, pushing hard on my mind and soul, pushing myself to say what I wanted so badly to say, what he deserved to hear, what he'd been waiting for since he told me he was leaving.

I opened my mouth.

The air around us calmed and morphed.

"Good-bye," I whispered.

And he was gone.

* * *

"Carol Baker," I read aloud. "Justin Baker...Jonathon Dome. Walter Dunst…Alice Freer…Michael Livingston… Magdeline Morose…" The list went on for another page and a half. It was the usual list put up once every two days, and it was filled with the names of those who had died in the service of the Order.

I sighed, closing my eyes, and leaned against the wall.

"Thank Merlin," I whispered, taking a deep breath. Draco's name wasn't on the list. Nor had it been since he'd left four weeks ago. I heard little about his mission, only small impressions from McGonagall every once and a while, but nothing that satiated my heart, nothing that told me he was okay and would be back soon. Because, somehow, I didn't believe that he was gone for good, or at least I didn't allow myself to believe it, because then I would have to admit that I was wrong, that I should have told him to stay, should have told him how much he means to me and that if he went I wouldn't be able to bear it without him. And so he _had_ to come back. Or else, well, I didn't quite know what would happen, nor did I wish to find out.

"Hermione?"

My eyes blinked several times before Ron came into focus across the table from me. By the look on his face I could tell he'd been calling my name for some time now and had only just gotten my attention.

"Yes?" I yawned, feigning sleepiness. It was after midnight, after all.

"What do you think of the strategy I wrote up for our mission?" Ron was always our strategist on missions, mostly due to his phenomenal skills in things such as Wizard's Chess and Quidditch. He was made for stuff like this. And he was extremely good at it.

"I think it'll work just fine," I said, pulling out the roll of parchment that had his write-up on it.

"Hermione, are you alright?" Harry asked, looking at me down his nose and through his glasses that had slipped down a little.

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"Well…" He looked at Ron and I held back a groan. So they _had_ been talking about me. I knew their strange behavior as of late meant something bad. "Ron and I have noticed you've been…less focused lately…and, well, sort of…ill-looking."

"You think I'm sick?" I laughed, and at that exact moment felt a shooting pain in my gut, which I ignored. I'd been having them for close to a month now. Perhaps it was that time of the month; shouldn't I have been getting that soon anyway? I didn't really remember, what with all that had been happening. I did the math quickly in my head and realized that it was probably my period. I excused myself to the bathroom, thankful for any reason to get away from them. I love my boys, but sometimes they're too nosey for their own good.

* * *

"Where's the list of the deceased?" I asked McGonagall as soon as I arrived at the next one-on-one meeting I had with her; they were required once a month to ensure a number of things were in order and working well. I was already "freaking out" over the fact that I was late with my period, not to mention the mission with the boys was tomorrow and we still weren't fully prepared due to the fact that Death Eaters had intercepted some of our own and taken the supplies they'd been bringing back to headquarters. Everything was a complete mess and all I wanted to do was know if Draco was alright or not.

My former professor looked at me with hard eyes, her hands folded together on the desk before her; her serious face. I wondered what I had done to receive it with such intensity.

"Miss Granger, I have been observing your behavior closely lately. I have also requested that Misters Potter and Weasley do the same. Collectively," she continued, tilting her head to the side, "we agree that there is a problem and we wish to address it."

"What sort of problem?" I asked, playing the fool.

"Concerning your—How shall I put this?—motivation in your work. You seem to be…distracted."

"Harry and Ron and I have already discussed this, professor," I said, rather shortly I admit. "I agree that I have been distracted, but I'm making an honest effort to correct that. I truly am."

"Very well."

I sighed.

"Now, there was another matter I wished to speak with you about, one that I have not breeched with your comrades."

I arched an eyebrow in confusion. What else could there be?

"It is in regards to Mr. Malfoy."

"Professor—"

"Before you make assumptions," she cut me off, "please allow me to finish. I do not care what you and the others do with your personal lives, so long as they do not interfere with your work. It is not your relationship with Mr. Malfoy that I wish to discuss."

"There is no relation—"

"Hermione." My lips froze, and perhaps my brain as well. She never called me by my first name unless—

"What happened?" I demanded. "What—"

"Please, clam yourself."

"Tell me what happened or—"

She reached her hand across the table, taking one of mine. Again my entire being seized up and I listened.

"Hermione," she sighed, looking genuinely sad and concerned. "Draco Malfoy has been reported as 'killed in action'. His body is being brought back to headquarters by Lowl for burial…" Her voice trailed on and, though I heard the words, I couldn't really comprehend them.

"C-Could there be…some sort of…mistake?" I whispered weakly, unsure of how I was able to form words at all.

She squeezed my hand gently.

"I'm afraid not," she said. "I'm sorry."

* * *

The very same day that I learned of Draco's terrible fate, I learned of my own. Having not been able to keep any sort of food down for several weeks now, I knew—somehow I knew without a doubt—that I was pregnant with Draco's child. The irony was not lost on me.

I told Harry and Ron that I was sick and didn't go on the mission with them, sending someone else in my place. I know it was a selfish and craven thing to do, but, for lack of a better description, I was heartbroken.

When the boys had been gone a few days, I finally came out of my room and sought out Professor McGonagall. I told her everything (with as little detail as possible), from the first civil conversation we'd had to the morning he left. I confessed that I was in love with him, and that the pain of his loss was so deep that I wondered how I would ever get over it. To this she gave me meaningless words of comfort and told me to take as much time as I needed.

"There's something else," I said, my voice thin and warped from having cried for the past three straight days. For now, there were no more tears. "I'm pregnant."

Before McGonagall could respond, the door to her office jumped and yelped, having been walloped from the other side. The voice of the man I knew to be Jacob Lowl drifted to my ears.

"Come in," McGonagall said, giving a flick of her wrist to unlock the door.

"Professor," Lowl said, and gave a curt bow. "You asked me to come see you the moment I returned."

"Please sit, Jacob." He did as he was told, his trembling old body finding the task a little more than difficult. "Did you do all that I asked of you?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Where is he?"

The air jumped out of my lungs so fast that I felt faint.

"In a casket in the back garden. Several people are already digging the hole."

I ran from the room before I realized I'd stood up. There were people everywhere I looked, people crowding the corridors, people I bumped into as I ran as fast as I could to the backyard. Lupin, Moody, and four others were—as Lowl had said—digging an enormous hole in the earth.

"Hermione!" Lupin exclaimed, shocked—I assumed—that I had stumbled upon them. "You shouldn't—"

"I don't give a damn what I should and should not do!" I cried. "Let me see him!"

That, apparently, was all it took. The six men dropped their shovels and stepped away, and once they had I saw the large wooden coffin. It was light in color, unvarnished and unmarked. I pulled my switchblade from my pocket—for one always finds a use for a knife on missions—and knelt down before the coffin, my knees sinking easily into the rain-softened dirt.

DRACO MALFOY

LOYAL MEMBER OF THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

KILLED IN ACTION: AUGUST 21, 1998

HE WILL BE MISSED

I didn't even know his birthday.

I pulled myself to my feet, closed the knife, and put it back in my pocket. He was inches beneath the wood, hid hollow body lying there, taunting me, laughing at me for what a coward I was.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I pushed the lid of the coffin up using the butt of my palms. And there he was. Just as I remembered him. The same pin-straight blond hair, the same pale skin. And, if I looked hard enough, he even had a hint of a smirk behind his lips. Unless I was only imagining it, which could very well have been a possibility.

"Hermione?" McGonagall said cautiously behind me.

"I love you," I whispered to his corpse. "Good-bye Draco." Slowly I lowered the lid of the coffin, then turned to my professor and the dozens of others congregated in the garden around me.

"Mr. Malfoy instructed Mr. Lowl to give this to you." She handed me a tiny piece of rolled parchment. I thanked her as I took it, then went inside without another word.

It would be another two days before I even looked at the parchment, so terrified was I of what it said. At his funeral, which consisted of mostly obligated Order members, I threw the first handful of earth on his coffin, but said no words aloud. Everything I'd ever wanted to say to him I said in silence, my eyes to the sky. He was in Heaven, he had to be, for that was the only possible way this could have had a silver lining.

In the weeks that followed I gradually told everyone of my involvement with and love for Draco Malfoy. It was the hardest for me with Harry and Ron, but—seeing my tears, I believe—they understood and comforted the way friends do. They were shocked by the announcement of my pregnancy, but, in the end, offered their devotion to me and my child, "no matter who the father was".

There is not a day that goes by that I don't think of him and wonder what we could have been. He is my only regret, the only thing that still hurts me today just as much as it hurt me all those years ago at Hogwarts. I doubt I'll ever be able to love another as much as I loved him, as much as I still do. He was proud and stubborn and somewhat stupid in his views and morals, but buried deep and carefully guarded he was kind and sweet and loving. And that, more than anything, is why I don't tell my daughter who her father was. I don't want to spoil her image of him with the knowledge that he was once an evil, mislead man. He will remain in our hearts forever as a beautiful person.

Today, eleven years later, Mercedes Isabelle Granger is entering her first year at Hogwarts, that was reopened nine years earlier when we'd won the war. Years ago, when I was a student myself, I'd often pondered what house my children would be in. I always prayed they would be in Gryffindor, like me, or Ravenclaw, like I was almost in. I never dreamed that when Mercedes was sorted into Slytherin that I would be proud, thankful even.

I still cry sometimes when I remember Draco and how much I still love him. And I cry the hardest when I pull out my tiny box of keepsakes that I have hidden under the bed and read the note he left me when he knew he was going to die. And, fresh as the day he wrote it, it still says, "Though I never wanted it, you helped me in more ways than I could ever repay. I love you, Hermione. Good-bye." But as much as I cry and sob and curse when I think of him, I smile too. I smile, because I do love him and I do miss him. But mostly I smile because he was strong enough, he was determined enough, to become good, to help others when before he hurt them, and to earn my love.

He is my only regret and he will never, _never_ be replaced. Not even close.

* * *

Well this is a little (turned into a big) one-shot that I've been worked on for a little while now. It's nothing fancy or awe-inspiring, but I do like it and hope you all feel the same.

As always: **REVIEW!**


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